The Life and Death of a War Boy
by briankilroy
Summary: This is what is expected out of a War Boy when he is sent out to do war, and this is what is expected out of a War Boy when he is due to die. And *this* is what happens when a War Boy that dies on the Fury Road is brought back to the Citadel to live again.


When a War Boy goes out to do war, there are certain things he knows he must do.

Number one - protect Immortan Joe, the War Rig, and the convoy at large at any cost;

number two - ensure the safe passage and cooperation of all parties involved in business ;

number three - Witness any War Boy whose half-life is about to come to an end;

and, if his own death is imminent and there is nothing else he can do, number four - chrome up and die historic.

It was what Immortan Joe wanted, what he _commanded_ of them if they wanted to ever reach Valhalla. A War Boy who was ready to sacrifice everything for the Immortan was more than welcome through the Gates, and he would ride fastest and hardest down the Eternal Highways. You could tell which boys were die-hard fanatics, ready to give themselves up at any moment. They were the ones who took the risks, who led the pack, who weren't afraid to get close enough to see the whites of the roadkill shitstains' eyes before killing them.

Ironically, those most ready to die were very nearly some of the last to do so. They only got better at their craft, whether it be lancing or driving or gunning, because each road war was a learning experience - if you lived to learn from it in the first place. Strategies were built, weak spots were pin-pointed, and confidence was crafted. A trained and zealous War Boy was dangerous in his own right, but when he knew what he was doing, he was as safe on the road as he was at the Citadel.

These aces, if the night fevers and lumps haven't taken them yet, could grow old. In fact, there was a War Boy named The Ace, and he had been a War Boy for thousands, if not tens of thousands of days. He was a prime tactician, a wary eye, and a good shot. When he wasn't serving as Imperator Furiosa's right hand man, he was training the pups and passing on his own knowledge. His aging joints had earned him nothing but more trouble, and his longevity only made War Boys think the Gates of Valhalla had closed to him some time ago. (They hadn't, of course. There was no need for him to die, not for as long as he still served a greater purpose. He had earned his spot, and in due time, the Gates would open to him and he would ride on.)

On very rare occasions, a War Boy could become Imperator. Only those of a healthy stock were ever considered - no lumps, no bumps, no fevers, no chills. The Organic Mechanic made damn sure of that. He had been surrounded by half-lifes for as long as the Citadel was _the_ Citadel, and he could spot a sick man from a mile away. If he cleared a War Boy, then he would be worked hard, tested hard, pushed to the brink and pulled back just to make sure that he had the guts and he could take it. Many Imperators had been there since the Start, but you could count on your hands the amount of Imperators chosen from the War Boys. Imperator Furiosa was a glaring example, having only taken seven thousand days to earn her position, even after being cast out from her status as Wife. She drove the War Rig as well, and it was an honor reserved only for the most deserving.

It was more common, of course, for these War Boys to die. Whether it was on the road in a great last spark of brilliance surrounded by Witnesses, or in the dark silent night with no one but himself to confront Death, they died. When an ace was Witnessed, his death sometimes inspired bravery in those that had been in his company. More often than not, that bravery was missplaced, and they died before their time on the Fury Road had truly come to an end. The same was almost to be said about those who died soft in their sleep. It inspired dread in those that had not been far behind them, and they also passed in the nights that followed.

A War Boy should only die on the Fury Road or (if he couldn't help it) in the middle of the night when his sickness finally overcame him. While the Immortan certainly had one he preferred over the other, both methods were acceptable. They had done all they could do. It was all they _should_ do.

Despite Joe's best efforts to brainwash and indoctrinate the War Boys and the Citadel at large, there were still those few that went against the grain. They could fight for more water ("Do not become addicted," he had always warned), they could act insubordinately, or they could try to provoke an insurrection to overthrow Joe. All of those who performed these acts were, of course, promptly shredded and displayed as a warning. Those deaths were a waste. A waste of water, food, guzz, and time that could have been invested in a more loyal War Boy. A waste of a lancer, a driver, a black-thumb, a green-thumb who could have served a better purpose.

There were times when the War Boys would kill each other. With so many boys fighting in the pits, it was only a matter of time before one of them would die. It was almost never done with malice; the intent was to defeat, even if it meant taking them to the brink and pulling off at the last second. Such violence was almost celebrated among the fighters, serving as something to clap each other on the back about and (even begrudgingly) say _good show_. However, when the loser never got back up, and the winner had to explain to an Imperator or to the Immortan, they didn't care about intent. They were down one War Boy, and if they were in a particularly sour mood, they would be down one more.

These were the manners of death that were, if not understood, then at least tolerated by Immortan Joe. He didn't expect 100% cooperation among the population, though he knew he had the strength to take down any sort of opposition, and then it was no problem. He knew the War Boys had to spar when trade runs and road wars were few and far between. There were some absolutely vicious fighters amongst the half-lives, and while he coveted them, they were the most dangerous in the pits. The death of the fighter is forgiven, but the killer was left to deal with the consequences. At the end of the day, Joe understood the risk. It was opening a valve to release pressure, but sometimes the machine would still rattle and heave and malfunction, and there was nothing else to be done about it. And he accepted that.

There was one other way that War Boys could die, and it was the only one that Immortan Joe would not stand. It was never planned for, never intended, never desired by anyone. The War Boys out doing war often walked a fine line between their chrome deaths and what hell awaited them if they were to fail. Their comrades would often give them the push they needed, because no one wanted to be the boy to die on the Fury Road and come back to the Citadel alive.

They weren't supposed to come back. "Why have they come back?" Joe could be overheard asking of the Organic Mechanic, but he didn't know either. He only ever saw them carried in with no explanation, dumped on a slab before the carriers ran off into the tunnels or _wherever_ War Boys ran off to once they returned. Organic's first instinct was to let them perish - they weren't supposed to come back, so why let them go on? - but the opportunity to hone his practice was something he just couldn't pass up on.

It was the ultimate horror for a War Boy to fade out of consciousness in the hot sand, and then to sputter back to life in the cold Chop Shop. If he didn't feel it, he certainly saw it. Arms gone at the elbow, legs gone at the knee, a body still there but left unmovable and feeling - _paralyzed_ , was the word fluttering about. Some didn't even see it, having been blinded either by glass or metal or fire, but in the end, all their wounds meant the same.

They couldn't do war. They couldn't drive. They couldn't lance. Hell, some of them couldn't even make their way to the piss-pot without help, and that help seldom came. The others were afraid to touch the afflicted out of some mis-guided belief that their wounds would spread to them. They treated the crippled as ghosts, looked at them like ghosts as well, already dressed for the part. Not even the Imperators could handle a steady view; all but Furiosa did their best to turn a blind eye and pretend that all was well, though they knew damn well they'd sweep through the Wretched once more and look for fresh pups. There were the very rare times when Immortan Joe's gaze faltered and his icy blue eyes fell out of focus, and it was in that moment that they realized that Valhalla was closed to them forever.

When they had first fallen, it was _then_ that they were supposed to die. It was _then_ that the Gates had been open, and they had been awaited, but something pulled them away. Shrapnel failed to slice through organs and major arteries, explosions and collisions failed to concuss and traumatize, fire failed to burn and consume, and for some reason the War Boys hanged on, and the Gates closed. There was no recovering from missing and lame limbs, blinded eyes, a spine that pivoted around on a broken vertebra. The War Boy that they had been known as had died out there on the Fury Road, and whatever was left was hardly worth keeping around.

Very few of these boys found another purpose, but even then the stigma of them being them kept the air tense and the able-bodied War Boys skirted around them and talked in careful sentences because none of them knew how to deal with it. It was still the best that any of them could hope for. They could keep their minds off of the reality, even if just for a little bit. They could pretend that they had always been doing their new job, but there would still be nights that they startle awake from their fever dreams and reach out for arms and legs that have long been gone even if they could feel them flex and move and ache as if they were still there.

For the other boys, that was every day, all day. There was nothing else to do but sit there and wallow in it. They were consumed by their non-existence, by the whispers of _mediocre_ by the callous, and by their failure to reach Valhalla, and to be Witnessed, and to die. There was nothing left for them, and there was no helping them.

These War Boys shrank away from normal Citadel life, either into themselves or into their own small pockets of existence within the three stone towers. The mess hall was about the only place left that they could be found without looking; most of them abandoned the dormitories in favor of out-of-the-way halls and rooms long emptied. It was in these places that they lamented their existence, wondering what could have been and what will be.

For the War Boys who decided not to stay, they decided what would become of themselves. They would walk, climb, crawl out of the dark holes they had settled into and made their way up. Higher and higher they would go until they finally emerged from the tower and came across an opening. Some would find themselves on one of the bridges, others on the treadmill platform, others in the thresholds of one of the doors to nowhere. For however long it took, they would stay there until the urge to jump overcame that to retreat back into the darkness, and they would fling themselves down to the desert floor.

There was never any fanfare. It was nothing like a death on the Fury Road. Out there, the world stopped to watch a War Boy die, and his brothers nearly set the war to pause to encourage him and to Witness him. When these boys decided to jump, far away from the chaos of any sort of road war, the world went on without a blink. At most, the other War Boys would pause to contemplate the flash of white and black that disappeared over the edge, but they would think none of it. In fact, the only people who cared about those who jumped were the Wretched clamoring for anything they could get off the body, including its flesh.

It was the absolute last way Immortan Joe wanted to see the War Boys go. They had failed him on the Fury Road, and they had failed him again at the Citadel. They were wastes, the lot of them, using up nothing but space and resources that could be better allocated elsewhere. It would have been better for them to die out there. So much better, in fact, that he demanded an increase of explosives in the thunder sticks, and made the black-thumbs coax out that last amount of horsepower from the vehicles. Everything that Joe could think of needed to be _that_ more dangerous. He encouraged his followers to take more risks, do everything - everything it took to take out their enemies. If it produced results, so be it. If more War Boys died out there, so be it. As long as they died his way, he didn't care.

The only thing left to do was find out who in the world was bringing those good-as-dead War Boys back.


End file.
